


A Waltz Among the Cinders

by Empress_Irony



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Cinders (Visual Novel), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Moacube's Cinders (Sorta), Lemon, Lots of Cameos from other Sansa Shipping Partners, Stannis isn't who you'd expect...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empress_Irony/pseuds/Empress_Irony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally meant to be a one-shot for my birthday last week, but has instead become a celebratory upload to mark of me leaving a job that was making me miserable and kept injuring me in favour finding something that uses my skills (at the very least)!</p><p>"To say that it had been a difficult few years for Sansa was an understatement. Many would have said that to lose both of her parents within months of each other when she was sixteen would have been sufficient tragedy for a lifetime; to suffer the indignity of her shrewish widowed aunt Lysa and sickly, mewling cousin Robin moving into and taking over her vast family estate had rendered Sansa Stark quite pitiable in the eyes of her community..."</p><p>A Cinderella AU inspired partially by the Cinders graphic novel by Moacube, and the work of Marie-Catherine, Baronne D'Aulnoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waltz Among the Cinders

To say that it had been a difficult few years for Sansa was an understatement. Many would have said that to lose both of her parents within months of each other when she was sixteen would have been sufficient tragedy for a lifetime; to suffer the indignity of her shrewish widowed aunt Lysa and sickly, mewling cousin Robin moving into and taking over her vast family estate had rendered Sansa Stark quite pitiable in the eyes of her community. All the same, no-one said a word when the poor girl was forced to play nurse and housemaid in the house she grew up in - beyond remarking what a shame it was, really. Whispers followed the prettiest girl in town as she went from stall to stall, as radiant in drab woollen dresses as she was in velvet gowns; was it true that the aunt had frittered away all of her money? Was it true that Mrs Arryn couldn't touch a penny, and that was why she hated the girl so?

 

Occasionally someone would attempt to ascertain her well-being with some degree of sincerity. Sansa would smile and say that she was perfectly well really, all this housework was keeping her quite healthy! She would smile enigmatically and walk away, puzzling the soul who had thought to ask. She wouldn't tell them that she was biding her time until she had control of her own assets on her twenty-first birthday, when she would kick her horrible aunt and spoilt cousin out on their bony rears. _Two more years_ , she would tell herself. _Only two more years._ Two more years of Lysa asking daily for Sansa to sign over control of her trust, and two more years of her refusing. Two more years of her aunt announcing over breakfast that since they cannot afford a maid, Sansa had best earn her keep – the ungrateful beast.

 

Sansa knew perfectly well that the Arryns had been wealthy, once upon a time. When old Jon Arryn had died, control of his son's inheritance had been given over to his mother. They had been destitute within the year. That had been one of the reasons why it had been written into her parents' wills that in the event of both of them dying, their assets were to be frozen until Sansa came of age – pending her approval of an appropriate guardian to manage her affairs. So it would be over her cold, dead lifeless carcass that Lysa Arryn would get hold of any of the Stark's money.

 

As she swept the acres of floors, cooked the food and scraped off the mould forming in the damper parts of the old house, Sansa would frequently fantasise about what she would do when she had control of her life again. Perhaps she might offer to adopt Robin and endeavour to correct his faults of upbringing. Maybe she would hold a grand picnic and invite every maid, manservant, dogsbody and dishwasher in the area; she could make it a yearly event, no! A twice-yearly event! Men would come to pay her court and she would turn them away, loftily wondering where their undying love was when she needed it most.

 

One morning in midsummer a messenger turned up at the door with an ornate-looking invitation. Sansa answered the door (as if anyone else would) and took the heavy envelope that was pressed into her hands. It was addressed to the head of the household. She debated momentarily over whether she or Aunt Lysa currently qualified for that position; she conceded with a sigh that it wasn't herself. Yet. She left the envelope on the side-table and thought no more of it till later that afternoon.

 

******************************

 

“A ball! Just imagine it, my sweet Robin! A ball! We shall have you looking handsome!” Aunt Lysa crowed when she eventually got round to reading the invitation at lunch. ““You are cordially invited to a masquerade ball celebrating the twenty-first birthday of Prince Joffrey Baratheon!”” She gasped. ““Cordially!” How wonderful! The prince has a younger sister too, I seem to remember. Oh, we shall dress you up in _such_ finery...”

“Will Sansa be coming, Mummy?” The boy asked innocently enough, as he looked up from prodding the remaining potatoes on his plate.

 

Lysa looked up at the girl in question. Sansa was stood by the wall, ready to pour drinks or serve Robin another morsel of fish. She did her best to keep her expression neutral. A ball! She hadn't had a night off in years, never mind gone to party! She might even get to dance with a real Prince...

“No.” Lysa said decisively. “No, she won't. There is far too much work to be done around the house for her to ignore her duties.”

 

Sansa couldn't help but visibly sag as the disappointment hit her. Her aunt looked away, a satisfied smile stretching her face.

“Now eat up, my dear sweet Robin. The little princess won't like you if you aren't big and strong...”

 

****************************

 

Sansa Stark had no idea why her Aunt Lysa hated her so. They had barely known each other before her mother had died. She remembered the unpleasant way her mouth had twisted the day that she had moved into Winterfell, as she had told her that she looked exactly like Cat at that age. Only more beautiful. Everything had seemed to go downhill after that...

 

Her aunt's behaviour had always seemed unreasonable and spiteful to her, but her refusal to let her go to the ball seemed to compound all of Sansa's wrongs into one ball of emotional pain. She had mechanically cleared away lunch, washed the dishes and wiped down the table before rushing up to her attic room and crying into her pillow in frustration. She had so few pleasures in life anymore; she was always grimy and bone-tired, aching from over-work – she rarely had the will or energy to do so much as pick up a book in the evening. Was it so much to ask that she receive a reprieve for one evening? Just one?! She wiped her eyes and looked at her hands. That was what she truly resented Aunt Lysa for most of the time – the state of her hands. They had gone from being, soft and elegant, to being hard, dry and covered in little nicks and grazes, some of which scarred; the nails had been shattered into oblivion long ago. Every time Sansa looked at her hands, she was reminded of just how far she had fallen and the dignity that she had compromised in order to survive.

 

She had just made herself presentable again when she heard a knock at the door.

“Aunt Lysa.” Sansa was shocked. Her aunt rarely ascended to her domain of dust and cobwebs.

“I know that I have not always treated you as well as I might have,” she began as she stroked Sansa's hair by her temples. “And I don't have the funds to buy myself a dress if sweet Robin is to have a new outfit, never mind you. But” she continued delicately, “I have some skill with a needle - nothing compared to you, mind.” She conceded as she traced her niece's cheek. “I have a bargain to propose to you. Help me modify one of Cat's gowns for the ball, and I will allow you to do the same.”

“You mean..?” Sansa's heart leapt a little with the expectation of hope.

“Yes, dearest. You may come to the ball.”

 

***********************

 

Sansa knew full-well that she was being bribed; her expertise as a seamstress in exchange for being allowed to go to the ball. But she couldn't bring herself to care. She found her duties lightened somewhat as she threw herself into the task of modifying one of her mother's old gowns according to Lysa's instructions; there were far too many frills for her taste – but hey ho. She dedicated almost every spare moment she had to working on her own dress, often working late into the night and until her eyes and fingers ached. On the morning of the ball, it was finally ready.

 

It was lovely, even if she did say so herself. It was a floor-length, light blue velvet gown that was cinched in with an empire-line, just above the waist; Sansa had altered the neckline into a sweetheart cut and embroidered white flowers and vines around the neck and cuffs, the long sleeves lending it a look of sophistication. She had made a mask for herself out of glue and paper and paint and it didn't look... Too bad? Sansa guessed that everyone would be taking of their masks at the earliest opportunity, anyway.

 

She had just finished helping Lysa into her dress (in spite of the latter's impatient chivvying) when she heard crashing from the kitchen. She ran as fast as she could and found complete and utter chaos inside. An unholy mixture of oil, flour, sugar, and milk had been splattered about the floor along with their shattered containers. Instinctively, she knew that a friendly cat hadn't broken into the house – for one thing a cat couldn't have opened the cupboard to get at the milk. Initially she thought that Robin had had some kind of tantrum; but she didn't have time to look further into the matter, she had to get dressed herself – dammnit! She got rags and a mop and started to clean up the mess. She was almost done, when she smelled smoke.

 

Sansa sniffed and whipped her head around. She followed her nose, praying that the house wasn't on fire on top of everything else. She saw smoke coming from the back garden. She ran. A she heard a strangled cry come from her own throat as she saw a sleeve of sapphire velvet poking out of a bonfire. She sank down onto her knees next to it, shock sinking down to her very bones. She vaguely registered Aunt Lysa sidle into the corner of her eye.

“Sweet Robin is such a good boy. It looks like he tried to help you get rid of the dead leaves and the other rubbish! It's such a pity that he mistook your dress for old rags. It looks like you can't come after all.” Fake pity dripped from every word with a relish that left no doubt as to the speaker's insincerity. “What can I say?” Sansa finally looked up at her aunt, realising that tears were streaming down her face. “Oops.” Lysa half-shrugged and her face distorted with a grin of malevolent glee.

 

****************************

 

Sansa vaguely registered Lysa laughter getting further away, as she stared into the flames. Eventually, the fire died down into nothing – leaving only ashes and cinders in the twilight. She was brought out of her catatonia by the sound of her _family_ departing in the carriage they had hired for the evening. She buried her hands into the warm ashes and screamed into the ground. Every ounce of frustration and anger that she had ever felt came pouring out with the injustice of it all. Oops. _Oops!_

 

Tears ran down her smoke-streaked face and fell into the cinders.

“Why?” She whispered, her voice hoarse. “ _Why did you leave me?” For the first time, s_ he spoke the thought aloud that had plagued her every day of her life since Lysa had arrived. Images of a life she had long since forced herself to forget bombarded her: Her mother's smile, her father's gruff acceptance of a hug, autumn walks, her hair being brushed before bed, being told how loved she was... Why did they have to go? “Help me, now. Please. I need you.”

 

The ground began to shake. Sansa rolled back onto her knees and stared in astonishment as the wind picked up and swirled the ashes, embers flying everywhere in a beautiful firefly ballet. A towering man appeared from the smoke, a taupe great coat whipping around him in the wind. He turned his midnight blue eyes onto Sansa on the ground.

“Finally!” He exclaimed, as the wind died down and his close-cut black hair settled down. “Fortitude is an admirable trait, but you should know you're own limits.”

“Pardon?” She asked, non-plussed and wondering if she had finally gone insane.

“Three years is a terribly long time to put one's life on hold, waiting for some chit of a girl to come to her senses and ask for help.” The strange man scowled down at her.

“I'm afraid that I don't know what you're talking about, sir.” Sansa stated blandly, still wondering if Lysa had finally broken her.

 

Understanding dawned on the stranger's face; his expression softened, minutely.

“Of course. She probably died before she had a chance to tell you,” he said to himself as much to her. He turned his attention back onto Sansa. “Tell me, Sansa: Did your mother ever tell you tales with fae in them?”

“Fairies, you mean?”

“Yes, yes, whatever you want to call it. Fairies, fae, fair folk.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“Yes. She did.” Understanding dawned on her. “Wait, sir: Are you my fairy godfather?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said through clenched teeth – his embarassment showing. “Your mother summoned me the night before she died. She recognised that her time was drawing near and that you would be left alone in the world. She made me vow to come to your aid, should you ever request it.”

“Why?” Her mouth turned dry. “Why did you agree? What did she give you? I don't know you, but you hardly seem to be the type to want flower crowns for your favour.” She remembered that much from her stories. A fairy's help always came with its own price and conditions.

 

Something flickered behind the fairy's eyes and he offered Sansa a hand up.

“My family owed yours a debt, my helping you was a way to repay that debt.”

“Are you family fairies too?” She asked hesitantly as she stood up with his aid.

“No.” He swallowed. “It's just me.” Sansa suddenly became aware of her hand still being encased in his, it's weight warm and comforting. “My older brother swore to your father that as his friend of long ago, he would look after you and your mother. He failed to do right by you.” He scowled again. “Your mother knew that he was unreliable and unlikely to help in the event of her death, so knowing that I am what I am – she called on me. I said that I would help you should you ever ask for it; I refused to intervene where I wasn't wanted.” The grip around Sansa's fingers grew a little tighter.

“I don't even know your name.” Sansa whispered.

“Stannis Baratheon. A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, my lady.” He let go of her hand and gave a small bow.

“Baratheon? As in..?” She felt a little faint all of a sudden.

“Yes.” He frowned. “The king is my brother. Fae blood runs down our mother's line and when I was born it was obvious what I was. Thus I was removed from the line of succession and obliged by an act of law to keep out of politics; I do believe my younger brother has since taken my place.” He clenched his jaw. “A creature of myth has no place in the modern world,” Stannis declared bitterly – as though repeating an oft-heard phrase.

“Don't talk about yourself that way!” Sansa exclaimed as she grabbed his hands. “You are not a creature! You are extraordinarily gifted human being!”

“Thank you, but you don't even know if I'm good at what I do yet.” His lips quirked up slightly in a not-quite smile. “Tell me, what do you need?” He looked her up and down, and suddenly Sansa felt self-conscious of her dishevelled state. She let go of him and stepped back. Her thoughts must have shown, because Stannis added: “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I shan't judge you for trials, nor for looking like you have gone through them.”

 

Heartened, she told him everything that had happened from Lysa's arrival to that evening. His eyes grew as stormy as the sea in mid tempest, his expression darkening with every trespass that aunt had committed against niece in the past.

“I promise you that your aunt shall pay for what she's done. Tell me, Sansa: Do you still want to go to the ball?”

“Well, of course...” She said quietly. “But look at the state of me! And my dress is, well...” She gestured to the ashes which they were stood in.

“No matter. Did your aunt leave behind the envelope from the invitation?”

“I'm not sure. I could try and find it?”

“Please do.”

 

Sansa ran inside, not caring that she was trailing dirt and ashes through the house. Sure enough, her aunt had left the actual envelope on the side table by the door, probably deeming it unnecessary to gaining entry. Sansa snatched it up and hurried back outside. She gave the envelope to Stannis. He held it flat in his palm and waved his other hand over it, a look of intense concentration on his face. Light pink streams of light swirled between the paper and his fingers, and before Sansa's amazed eyes a reproduction of the invitation materialised on top of the envelope.

 

Stannis read the invitation and his expression turned thunderous:

“Sansa. Were you aware that this is actually addressed to you?”

“What?”

 

Wordlessly, he handed Sansa the invitation.

 

_To the Stark family,_

 

_You are cordially invited to a masquerade ball in honour of Prince Joffrey Baratheon's 21 st birthday._

_Yours in good faith,_

 

_King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name._

 

Beneath the copperplate script, there was a rounded scrawl that Sansa assumed belonged to the King himself:

 

_Cat, bring that daughter of yours. She'll get on swimmingly with my boy! Robert._

 

Sansa vaguely registered Stannis mutter:

“Typical Robert. Makes a heartfelt vow, doesn't bother to check if one of his charges is even still alive.”

 

Sansa, meanwhile, was speechless with rage. How dare she? How _dare_ she? She had put up with her aunt's holier-than-thou attitude for weeks now, _weeks!_ Oh, Aunt Lysa was doing her such a big _favour,_ and she should be oh so _grateful!_ The invitation had never been Lysa's to begin with! If anything, Lysa ought to have been begging _her_ to be allowed to come with her milksop spawn! That harpy had no right! The fraud!

“Stannis,” she said in quiet and deadly tones, “what do you plan to do with her?” He hesitated a beat before answering.

“It's honestly better that you don't know, and that you aren't here for it.”

“Hm. Very well. It looks like I shall be going to the ball, after all. If you don't mind, that is” She tagged on the end blushing. It was his magic after all, it was a tad presumptuous to be making claims on it.

“Of course I don't. If I said that you shall go to the ball, go to the ball you shall!” He scowled. Sansa merely smiled; for all his barking he was quite kind, really. His scowl deepened in response. “Cease your smirking, woman, and stand over there.” He pointed to a spot a metre or so further back. She obeyed, still smirking.

 

He looked her up and down slowly. He locked eyes with her.

“Now we can't have you going to the ball covered in ashes, can we?” She blushed, hoping the dirt on her face concealed the fact. He slowly lifted his hands, and she felt a warm sensation course through her as tendrils of green light surrounded her. The light disappeared and Stannis blinked. Her collected himself and gave a satisfied nod. “Much better. I can see what I'm working with now.”

 

Sansa felt clean and glowing, not to mention re-energized. She looked at her hands and stifled a sob of happiness. All the cuts and grazes, whilst not gone entirely, had been healed over properly, - her nails were once more long and shining and the skin as soft as it once was. The damage wasn't yet undone, but it was a start and that made her inexpressibly happy. Stannis looked deeply uncomfortable.

“There there, we're not done yet.” He said awkwardly.

“I'm sorry,” she said wiping a tear away. “It's just... It's the first time I've felt like me in a long time.”

“I promise you that she will pay.” He reassured her, he took a half-step towards her and appeared to think better of it. He stepped back. A look of determination set in on his face. Once again, he slowly lifted his arms from the ground to the sky. This time stars of blue light blossomed and danced all about her, and she felt a balmy wind lift her hair. There was a flash of light. She touched her face. She was wearing a mask, but her long hair had been swept into a side parting. “Here.” Stannis said as he conjured a floor-length mirror in mid-air.

 

The gown seemed like something out of its time, but what time Sansa had no idea. It was like nothing she had ever seen. The base was golden silk, corseted at the waist and fanning out into a long A-line skirt that pooled around her. The silk was subdued by the floral black lace over-dress, which also emphasised her waist with black stripes that aligned with the corset's boning. On the skirt, a pattern of black irises bloomed before dissolving in black ruffles on the floor. The bodice had small crystals sewn into it and caught the light even in the gloom of early evening. The sweetheart neckline betrayed a line of bare golden silk, before reverting into dense black lace for the bust and short, capped sleeves. Onyx satin gloves finished the picture with a golden domino mask that might have come from Braavos.

“Oh Stannis...” She breathed. “It's beautiful...” She noticed the golden leather shoes peeping from under her skirts, which were like standing on cushioned air.

“I rather find that no amount of decoration can make beautiful that which was not to begin with.” Her cheeks were flooded with colour again. Stannis looked away from her as he made the mirror disappear. He stepped close to her pressed the envelope into her hand, as her heart skipped a beat and her mouth went dry. His face was practically next to hers. “Now. Take this. What I have to do should be done by midnight, but strive to be back here earlier if you want to hide your attendance from your aunt. The child means she'll have to be back by then, and you should be here before her.” He explained. “I'm going to send you to just before the palace doors, no-one will see you appear there. When you want to leave, just wish for it.”

“Thank you, Stannis. For everything.” Her voice was heartfelt.

“Nonsense woman,” he said softly. “It is both my pleasure and my duty. Now go, dance the night away with my idiot nephew; if he has any sense he shan't let you out of his sight.”

 

Before she had a chance to react, she was enveloped in gold light and found herself standing before the palace doors. No-one reacted as though she had just appeared out of mid-air. She presented her invitation to the guard on the door and went inside.

 

The entire thing was a spectacle to behold. There were fountains of wine, mountains of impossibly rich food on tables around the edge, and ice-sculptures of stags and lions around the room. An orchestra played and couples circled elegantly on the dance floor. It was beautiful – more than she had imagined – and yet... She looked around at the crowds of masked faces. She was alone. If only her parents were here to guide her through her first royal ball; if only a certain crabby fae-human hybrid were here to hold her hand, and look away in embarassment as he did so.

“Excuse me?” She looked up. A handsome man in blue court dress with blonde hair and a black mask was standing beside her. “May I have the next dance with you, my lady?”

“Of course you may, sir.” She said after a moment's hesitation. If she was going to be here, she was going to enjoy it to the fullest. “May I ask you your name, sir?”

“I am Harry Hardyng, Earl of the Eyrie. And yours, my lady?”

 

She supposed that she could give him a false name or simply refuse; but then again, _she_ had nothing to be ashamed of. She was the one who had been invited, after all, Stannis seemed to whisper in her ear.

“Sansa Stark, Duchess of Winterfell. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Harry.” She curtsied. His eyes widened a fraction before he remembered to bow.

 

She danced a waltz with Harry, a polka with a Willas Tyrell, a quadrille with a sharp-eyed Petyr somebody, and a mazurka with a friendly, hulking man called Sandor. She managed to escape to re-hydrate herself before her hand was claimed by an elegant older man that introduced himself as Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock for another waltz, - possibly the most graceful one that she had ever had. A handsome Dornishman who simply introduced himself as “The Viper” took her for a Rhoynish reel after that; afterwards Sansa insisted that she be allowed some time to eat and drink a little. Much to her pleasant surprise, she found herself surrounded by not only her former dance partners – but also many of _their_ families, friends and hangers-on. She felt herself to be in very good company. Willas' sister complimented her on how beautiful she looked that night and she blushed.

“Take the compliment, sweet Sansa. It is as true as the moon in the sky.” The Viper declared as he caught sight of her pink cheeks.

“Ah yes, but it is also true that I am a novelty and as sure as the sun will rise that beauty will mean nothing once the next bright new person arrives.” She replied succinctly. She was also pretty sure that having the wealth of Winterfell behind her didn't hurt. The Viper laughed along with several others and Lord Tywin's dwarf son, (Tyrion?) gave her an appraising look:

“I think I rather like you, Sansa Stark. Where on earth have you been hiding for all these years?”

“Such a huge house as Winterfell doesn't scrub itself, you know?” She said with a smile that she knew didn't quite reach her eyes. The others laughed, but Tyrion looked at her with query written on every line of his face.

 

Sansa's heart sank. Lysa was coming into her line of vision, and she did not look happy. She approached the group.

“Sansa, sweetling, may I have a world?” She said with a sickly sweet voice.

“Of course, _dearest_ aunt. Everyone this is my aunt, Lysa Arryn.” A murmur went around the group. Clearly the name was known. “I shall be right back,” she declared as she got up and followed Lysa to an empty corner. She could feel the eyes of some of her group on her as she went.

“I don't know where you _stole_ that dress from,” Lysa hissed. “But you will go home right this instant and take it off. How dare you come in here and make a spectacle of yourself, you jumped-up kitchen maid!”

“How dare I? How dare _I_?” Sansa hissed with fury pouring into every syllable. “With every wrong that you have committed against me you have the _gall...”_ She started walking away. Lysa grabbed her arm, her fingers digging in.

“Don't walk away from me!” Sansa threw her off with violent ease:

“Three years of scrubbing, remember! Now, you are going to stay the hell away from me for the rest of the evening or I might accidentally let slip to the King's father-in-law over there,” she said indicating towards Tywin, “that you are here on false pretences using _my family's invitation._ ”

 

Lysa's eyes bulged satisfyingly as she gaped like a trout on dry land. Adrenaline pulsed gloriously through her. She sat down and noticed several questioning glances:

“A little family trouble, not to worry. Now. Where were we?” The words “ours is the fury” rang satisfyingly through her head.

 

***********************

 

She was having such a wonderful time, but she still kept turning around expecting to see a a certain pair of dark blue eyes beneath a mask. Not expecting. Wanting. Hoping. Tywin approached her about three-quarters of the way through the evening with a handsome blonde young man at his elbow, who was wearing a mask with intricate golden antlers coming out of the top.

“Sansa, may I introduce you to my grandson, Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Joffrey – this is Sansa Stark, Duchess of Winterfell; don't mess it up.” And with that Tywin disappeared; Sansa chose to pretend that she hadn't heard that and opted for curtseying deeply instead.

“Your grace.”

“My lady.” He bowed in return. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”

“It would be an honour, your grace.”

“Of course it would,” he scoffed as he took her hand and lead her towards the orchestra. She raised an eyebrow behind his back. “Idiot nephew,” indeed. The Prince clicked at the band leader: “A polka, if you please!” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tywin shaking his head.

 

Sansa didn't think that she had ever been so manhandled in her life as she was during that dance. She was thrown hither and thither and was eternally grateful to Stannis for making her shoes do comfortable and easy to move in. She didn't think that she had ever been so glad to curtsy at the end of a dance as she was then. She winced slightly as she beat a retreat towards the terrace for some air; she was sure she would have bruising on her ribs later. She had just danced with a prince and it had failed sorely to live up to the expectations that childhood tales had instilled in her. She wanted one last dance before she went home and she knew who she wanted it with.

“Stannis,” she said aloud to the night air. “I need you.”

 

Her eyes were dazzled momentarily as her fairy godfather appeared in front of her.

“Well?” He scowled. “Aren't you busy dancing the night away with Joffrey and cooing over his looks?”

“Well, I tried dancing with him and didn't much care for it much to be honest,” she confessed as she looked directly into his eyes. He looked a little startled at that. “Lysa knows I'm here, have you done what you need to?”

“Yes. All is ready,” he replied – not breaking eye-contact.

“Good.” She reached down and took his hands. “Dance with me, Stannis.” He looked at her sceptically. “Please. I want..” She had nothing to be ashamed of, she reminded herself as she took a deep breath. “I want my last dance to be with you.”

 

As if by magic (and later Sansa would wonder if magic had any role to play), the orchestra struck up a waltz. Stannis held her close and guided her through the movements. Where Tywin had been all grace and technique, Stannis was emotion and precision. Where Harry had been all talk and charm, Stannis was silent. And she was captivated all the more for it. It felt as though they were an extension of each other's bodies, breathing and moving in sync with their heartbeats as much as the music. And they were pressed so close. She could feel the heat of his body coming through her dress. Oh so close...

 

The music came to an end, but they did not let go of each other. If anything, Sansa found herself pressed closer. Eternity seemed to have been distilled into the moment that they looked into each other's eyes. Wordlessly, Stannis cupped the back of her head and pulled her forward into a kiss. Her heart leapt and she found herself grabbing his shoulders, pulling him closer – anything for more contact. He responded by deepening the kiss.

“Sansa! Where are you?” She broke off when she heard Joffrey's voice. She groaned quietly and she felt the mask slip off her face onto the floor.

“Take me home, Stannis.” She demanded with an attempt to renew their kiss. With a swirl of wind and a flash of glowing embers, they were gone.

 

All Joffrey could find was a mask of black, white and gold.

 

********************************

 

They were still kissing frantically when they arrived back in Sansa's attic room. He kissed her neck; she giggled as it tickled her. They tumbled onto the bed in a mess of lace, silk and cotton. Her back arched as he held her wrists down and kissed her fiercely. Heat pooled within her as she felt him grind down on her hips, heat and an increasing hardness pulsing through his breeches.

 

She mewled in disappointment as he got up, leaving her on the bed.

“I know, my love. But there is one my thing I must do tonight to set my plan in motion.”

“Is it better if I don't know?” She asked as he stroked her jawline.

 

He nodded and pressed his lips to hers. Without looking, he waved his hand towards the door. It glowed purple for a moment before reverting back to normal.

“The door has been enchanted so that only those you wish to enter may do so. Keep it locked until I return in the morning.”

“The morning...” She whined.

“Yes, the morning – you wanton hussy.” He tapped her on the nose affectionately. “Get some sleep, tomorrow is going to be a busy day for you.”

“You will come back?” She stifled a yawn.

“You're going to want to get rid of me before too long; I fully intend to stick around and do things properly, woman.” He gave the bed a resentful glare. “However much I may wish it otherwise.”

 

Without another word, he disappeared. Sansa took off her clothes and collapsed gratefully into bed, the events of the day finally catching up with her. And if the springs creaked a little less and the mattress was conspicuously more comfortable, she didn't notice.

 

**********************

 

Sansa awoke the next morning to the sound of her aunt's hysterical screeching and pounding on the door. The words “traitor,” “bitch” and “just like Cat” were clearly distinguishable and not much else. Scared and disoriented, she clutched the covers closer until the sound of a scuffle ended the barrage of abuse against her poor door and the sound of her aunt's ravings grew further away. A gentle tap rang out across the room. Sansa stood up and put a dressing gown on.

“Who's there?” She asked through the wood.

“It's Selmy, Captain of the King's Household Guard.” A voice replied. She opened he door to reveal a kindly, but tough-looking old man.

“How may I help you, Captain?”

“We have reason to believe that your aunt fradulently gained access to the ball last night, using an invitation that was rightfully yours. Doing such is an unpardonable and deliberate breach of palace security; would you mind coming downstairs?”

 

She nodded and wordlessly followed him. Robin sat on the sofa, shivering miserably, whilst Lysa was restrained by a guard. She didn't notice Stannis until he silently came to her side and touched her arm reassuringly.

“There she is!” A voice exclaimed from the corner. Sansa whipped her head around to see both the Prince and his father stood there; Joffrey was pointing a finger at her. “There's my betrothed!” He crowed. Dismay pulsed through her. She wanted nothing to do with him!

“Actually, dear nephew, I think you'll find that she's mine,” Stannis pointed out with a light voice that belied the seriousness in his eyes. Sansa just stared.

“But, I'm the Prince! I-!” Joffrey was cut off by his father's hand on his shoulder.

“Peace, boy.” The Baratheon brothers looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. “You'll find another. I'll not stand in his way.” Stannis nodded in acknowledgement as Joffrey huffed. The King turned his attention towards Sansa. “Now this sour-faced, shrivelled cunt has been using you as a servant since the day she arrived, so I hear.” Sansa nodded. “Well, whilst my men were searching the house they found another will concealed in the accused's bedroom.” He held out a piece of paper.

“I've never seen that in my life!” Lysa screeched.

“Silence!” Robert thundered. “I knew Ned Stark all his life and I would know his writing anywhere! This will, post-dating the one you knew about, states that you are to come into your inheritance on your eighteenth birthday. Not your twenty-first.”

 

Realisation crashed over Sansa:

“Then that means...”

“You've had full control over the estate for over a year.” Stannis prompted, scowling over at Lysa.

“Meaning this cow has been squatting here illegally, and trying to intimidate you out of your rights to boot!” Robert growled. “I may have been rubbish at keeping an eye out for you, but I'm willing to see justice done now. Come!” With that, the King, the Prince, their guards and a kicking and screaming Lysa left. Stannis attempted to say something, but Sansa held up a hand. She walked over to poor, shaking Robin and knelt in front of him.

“Are you hungry?” She asked kindly. The boy shook his head. “Would you like to go back to sleep for a couple of hours?” He nodded. “Do you want me to read you a story?”

“No,” he whispered. “I can do it myself.” Sansa suddenly felt horrible about every mean-spirited thought that she had ever had about the boy, along with a surge of pride. She hugged him.

“Good boy,” she whispered before sending him upstairs. “Did you mean what you said earlier?” She asked Stannis without looking at him.

“Yes. If you'll have me.” He swallowed.

“Only if you ask me,” she retorted as she turned to face him.

 

He knelt before her.

“Sansa Stark, I know we've only just met in the grand scheme of things and I have very little to give you beyond a name that is younger than yours and a desolate and uninviting castle on Dragonstone.” She smiled sadly. Even with all his gifts and guile he thought so poorly of himself. “But all the same, will you consent to twist your life together with mine into one thread and marry me?” His eyes shone with such a sad and cautious hope!

 

She pulled him up off the ground and stroked his face, leaving her hand resting along his jaws.

“You need give me nothing but your love.” She swallowed and smiled, trying not to cry with happiness. “You have already given me... So much. My freedom. A chance at happiness. Of course I'll marry you.”

 

With the closest thing to a full smile that Sansa had ever seen from him, Stannis gathered her up in his arms and kissed her senseless. Eventually, she managed to tear herself away from her bliss-induced haze long enough to hold up a finger:

“But!” She said emphatically, “I want at least six months to a year between now and the wedding! I want to get to know you a bit first.” He nodded enthusiastically before attempting to press his lips to hers again. She pressed a finger onto his mouth. He grunted in frustration. “First, tell me,” she said. “Was that will genuine? The newer one?”

“Perhaps I spent last night tearing the house apart in search of it?” He said gruffly. “And perhaps I spent most of last night finding samples of your father's writing so I could forge it?”

“And perhaps it is better if I don't know which it is?” She raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

“Legally, yes.” He affirmed with a grim half-smile. “Anything to keep you safe.”

 

Sansa smiled and kissed him again. She really didn't care what happened to her aunt, and perhaps that made her heartless. But then again, perhaps she had earned the right.

 

***************************

 

In the months that followed, Stannis visited almost everyday; usually accompanied by Robert to make sure there was “no funny business.” Sansa wondered how he could leave the running of a kingdom so often and the one time she had asked him this, he had responded by waving off her concerns and telling her that other people did that sort of thing. Robert seemed to take to young Robin Arryn tremendously and took him outside to teach him how to shoot and fight at every available opportunity; naturally this would mean that Stannis and Sansa would have make themselves clearly visible by a window inside. The King was visibly saddened when Robin's relatives came to pick him up; whilst Sansa was surprised and delighted to see Harry again and to meet his aunt. Harry promised to bring him to visit at least twice a year and that seemed to mollify the King, and infuriate Stannis for reasons that Sansa found rather sweet.

 

After the departure of Robin, Robert redoubled his efforts as a chaperone. Neither Stannis, nor Sansa had the heart to tell him that it was pointless as the former could magically appear in the latter's bedroom at any time he wanted. Not that he did, much to Sansa's enduring disappointment.

 

The wedding day was as magnificent as Sansa might have hoped as young girl. But rather than caring about the dress, the decorations, or the flowers, she found herself touched by the presence of her new friends from the ball in the crowd, the King giving her away as a father might, and the man she loved waiting for her at the end of the aisle. If literal sparks flew at the kiss after the final “I do,” everyone was far too well-bred to remark upon them aloud.

 

After a honeymoon in Dorne, the couple lived at Winterfell and began a family of their own. As soon as their first child – a dark-haired daughter named Arya – was born bearing the mark of the fae, Sansa swore that she would protect and nurture her and someday give her Winterfell for her own. If a few hastily wiped away tears appeared on her husband's cheek, she chose not to notice. Stannis would teach Arya all he knew about magic and tactical guile, whilst Sansa taught her to value everyone around her, to temper her rage with kindness and to save her anger for those who truly deserved it. Arya Baratheon-Stark became the most formidable Duchess that Winterfell had ever seen, even if she refused to ever wear a dress.

 

And they all lived happily ever after. Obviously.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Morally dubious? A little. But you should see some of the other Cinderella characters from literary history...
> 
> I honestly have no idea what's going on with my release schedule right now; currently, I'm aiming to get a chapter of Chiaroscuro, the next chunk of The Rewards of Impertinence and a one-shot out over the next two months. Christ knows what order that's going to happen in....


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